


Cooperation

by plingo_kat



Series: Affairs [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Crying, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:52:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4687940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Please,” Illya grits out. Napoleon likes it when he asks, has promised in the past to make Illya beg. He wonders if that is what Napoleon wants tonight, to reduce Illya to helpless pleading, an instrument of Napoleon’s pleasure hopelessly ensnared by his own desire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cooperation

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Сотрудничество](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10480872) by [Molly_Malone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly_Malone/pseuds/Molly_Malone)



> Partially inspired by brodinsons, who deserves at least 12% of the credit. I probably would have gotten around to this eventually, but the messages about crying!Illya made the process much faster.
> 
> Hover over Russian for translation(s)!
> 
>  
> 
> plingokat @ twitter

Following the true spirit of international cooperation, they don’t talk about what they are doing. Illya spends the first three days after having sex with Napoleon in somewhat of a daze; they go again in the shower, in the bedroom, against the curtained windows. Napoleon sprawls helpless and wanting, ordering Illya to suck marks on his hipbones, to press rings of bruises into his thighs with his hands. The roughness of his voice lights up Illya’s nerves. He wants Napoleon to tell him how to please him, wants to make it so good that he’s ruined for other lovers.

“So,” Napoleon says after the celebration of another completed mission. He took both Illya and Gaby out for dinner, to one of the gaudy restaurants that seems to be everywhere in New York, which Illya disparaged adequately until Napoleon convinced Gaby to start kicking him under the table. Now Gaby has gone home to her own apartment after kissing them each on the cheek.

“So?” Illya says, finishing the last of his wine. He will never admit it, but Napoleon has appallingly good taste.

“Do you want a nightcap? I’ll let you insult my decadent capitalist apartment,” he adds temptingly.

“You could not stop my truthful and insightful criticisms,” Illya says. He thinks that perhaps he should not have had that last glass of wine; he always babbles when he drinks.

Napoleon grins. “Of course not, Peril. Come on, let’s go.” He drops a couple of bills on the table and rises all in one smooth motion.

“Do not tell me what to do,” Illya mutters, and somewhere in the back of his mind a voice that sounds suspiciously like his partner’s chuckles at the irony of the statement. Napoleon merely gestures him forward with a flourish, a veneer of enigmatic charm with nothing underneath.

Illya ponders this as they take a cab back to Napoleon’s safehouse – _apartment_ , Napoleon insists, although it contains nothing more personal than a meticulously selected collection of ties. Perhaps the man never reveals his true self other than in the bedroom, when his disheveled hair and wide eyes and arched body, begging to be hurt, finally strips away the suave conman to show the hungry animal underneath.

The thought has him so worked up that he shakes his head at Napoleon’s offer of another drink. He slides in close instead, enough to intimate a loom without actually encroaching on Napoleon’s personal space. Napoleon reacts beautifully, hunching his shoulders but turning into Illya like a lodestone drawn to north, desire winning over reluctance and the slightest tinge of caution. The whole thing is an act, Illya knows, but that doesn’t make his body’s reaction any less real.

They stand like that for three long breaths: Napoleon looking demurely at Illya’s hands dangling loose at his waist, Illya staring down at Napoleon’s finely coiffed hair.

“Direct me,” he growls when the anticipation becomes too much. Napoleon looks up with a flash of blue eyes under the dark of his lashes, slyly satisfied, and runs his tongue over his bottom lip.

“Take your coat off.” Napoleon fits actions to words and sheds his suit jacket, draping it neatly over a chair. Illya shrugs off his own and throws it over Napoleon’s, then gets his shirt as well without prompting.

“Undo my cufflinks?” Napoleon raises his arm, offers his wrist. Illya thinks of his hand around it, thinks of digging bruises into the thin skin over his pulse, of biting down there to taste the salt of his skin and the starch of his shirt. Instead he cups Napoleon’s hand with his palm, calluses to knuckles, and presses the pads of his fingers firmly into the starched fabric of his cuffs. Napoleon’s cufflinks are flashy things, gold shaped in an intricate curve, but Illya undoes them quickly and casually, slipping them into Napoleon’s trouser pocket and pressing in, briefly, to feel the solid warmth of his thigh through his layers.

Napoleon shivers.

“And the other.” He brings his other wrist up and holds them together as if he were in restraints. Illya can’t help his harsh exhalation.

Napoleon watches Illya’s fingers move with hot eyes. “Thank you,” he murmurs. Illya keeps his hand on Napoleon’s hip after he slides the second set of cufflinks into his pocket, feeling the movement of his body as he shifts his weight. “Come on.”

The tilt of Napoleon’s head as he turns has Illya reaching out to settle his hand on the back of his neck. Napoleon gives a full body shiver; Illya feels it, feels it transfer through his skin to coil in the pit of his stomach. Napoleon’s head dips a little and the fine hairs at his nape prickle at Illya’s palm.

“Will you—“ Illya has time to get out before Napoleon trips him onto the bed. High thread count cotton, he notes distantly, smooth and warm, decadent like Napoleon’s mouth, the lush fullness of his lips.

“Ah,” Napoleon tuts when Illya reaches for him again. He lets his arms fall back along his sides, spread wide and limp, but Napoleon merely raises his eyebrows. Illya frowns. Usually Napoleon is vocal about what he wants, how he expects Illya to please him. This silence is new – it feels like a test, but nobody has told him the rules.

He does the only thing he can think of: drags his arms upward as if swimming the butterfly crawl, crossing his wrists above his head. The flash of Napoleon’s smile and his knee planted on the bed between Illya’s thighs tells him he made the right choice. Right for what, he still does not know.

“Keep your hands there,” Napoleon says. He is scanning along the lines of Illya’s body, the planes of his chest and the curve of his ribs, the cut of muscle above his hipbones that point to his groin. Illya jerks a little as he smooths his hands over Illya’s nipples and down his abdomen, pressing thumbs briefly into the joins of his thighs before rubbing over the big muscle there. Then those clever fingers are undoing Illya’s belt and pulling his pants down.

Napoleon licks his lips. Illya cranes his head to see Napoleon wrap a hand around his cock, trousers and underwear still caught halfway to his knees. A choked, shocked noise escapes his throat as Napoleon runs his thumb over the head, pressing gently against the slit before curling his finger to run his nail along the thick vein of the underside.

“Beautiful,” Napoleon murmurs, and leans down to suck gently at the tip of him. Illya groans, fists clenching as he struggles not to push up into his mouth. Napoleon’s _mouth_. Hot, wicked, the purse of his lips against Illya’s skin, the wet shine of them, the vivid pinkness.

“I want to you fuck me later,” Napoleon says, and Illya makes another noise; he can feel the jerk at the root of his cock as his heart pounds. They have never done that, never gotten any further than hands and mouths and thighs. “So you can’t come, all right? Say it.”

“I,” Illya says. This is different from the other times they have been together, where Napoleon may have been calling the shots but Illya was the one on top. Now frenetic energy courses under his skin: he wants to grasp Napoleon’s hair and hold him still for his cock, wants to press fingerprint bruises into his jaw and hear Napoleon moan. “I will not come,” he says instead.

Napoleon’s eyes go heavy-lidded and his hand tightens on Illya’s thigh. “ _Very_ good,” he purrs, and bends down to suck Illya into his mouth again.

A grinding noise emerges from Illya’s throat. He fights to keep his head up and his eyes open, because Napoleon – he looks _ecstatic_ , brow furrowed faintly in concentration but his face otherwise slack, lips wet, cheeks hollowed. He tries to spread his knees but the tangle of pants and belt catch and press against his skin. Napoleon hums.

“Please,” Illya grits out. Napoleon likes it when he asks, has promised in the past to make Illya beg. He wonders if that is what Napoleon wants tonight, to reduce Illya to helpless pleading, an instrument of Napoleon’s pleasure hopelessly ensnared by his own desire. “Please, more.”

Napoleon merely wraps his fingers along the base of Illya’s cock and takes him deeper, sucking hard and flattening his tongue along the underside in a long, slow bob, kissing his fist each time. Illya bites down hard on his lower lip and pushes his head back against the bed, white starbursts swimming behind clenched shut eyelids.

“пожалуйста,” he breathes, and there’s a whine in his voice now. “Napoleon, I need—“

Napoleon pulls off with a pop. “Remember what you promised.” His voice is a wreck, rasping and hoarse, and it’s because of Illya, because of Illya’s cock in his mouth.

“I _need_ ,” Illya demands, but he’s cut off when Napoleon takes him in again, all the way down into his throat, fingers releasing him one-two-three-four until Napoleon’s nose is pressed against Illya’s pubic bone and he _swallows_. Illya barks out a hoarse shout even as Napoleon grasps his balls and pulls gently down, and he thrashes his head from side to side, riding out the almost painful pulses of pleasure.

“Mm,” Napoleon says, pleased. Illya feels the vibrations so deep in the cradle of his hips it’s _unbearable_ , too much, he whimpers out a sob and can feel the desperation prickle behind his eyes, ready to spill over. A lack of stimulation is what does it in the end, Napoleon pulling back to breathe. Illya’s wet cock slaps against his abdomen and _stays_ there as Napoleon just looks at him, and the prickle turns into actual tears, trickling cold from the corners of his eyes down his temples toward his hairline.

“Fuck,” Napoleon grates. “Look at you, crying for it.”

“Please,” Illya gasps out, shameless now so long as it will get Napoleon’s hands or mouth back on his cock. “Please, Napoleon, please—“

“Shh, it’s okay, I got you.” Napoleon smooths his hands over Illya’s thighs, taking the time to divest him entirely of his clothing, leaving Illya sprawled fully naked on the bed. Tears keep leaking out of Illya’s eyes but he does feel calmer, less likely to fall apart at a touch. He opens his eyes with Napoleon brushes a kiss of his mouth, just a touch of lips to lips. “All right?”

Illya swallows and nods. He doesn’t trust his voice not to break if he tries to speak.

“Yeah.” Napoleon is flushed, his pupils dilated so his irises are only a thin ring of blue around a well of black. “Hold out for me just a little longer.”

Illya doesn’t reply – he grips his wrist tighter, feeling the leather of his watch under his fingers. Napoleon is making soft noises over the wet sounds of lubricated skin on skin, and Illya tries hard not to imagine how he must be pressing back onto his own fingers, working himself open.

Napoleon’s hand is slick when it closes around his cock, gripping hard enough to be painful at the base. Illya appreciates that when Napoleon rocks down onto him with short motions of his hips. He forces himself to look: Napoleon’s head is thrown back, one arm behind his back to steady Illya’s cock, the other braced on Illya’s thigh. His back is arched, the tendons in his neck standing out in stark relief, his mouth open and swollen and wet. He looks like he’s outlined in light, blurry through Illya’s tears.

“Fuck,” Napoleon says when he’s fully seated. Illya jerks at his voice, the breathy gasp of it, faint like when Illya sets his teeth against his skin. It makes Napoleon clench around him and Illya _can’t_ , he can’t take it, he has dig his heels into the bed and arch: to cry out, ugly with desperation. “Fuck, fuck, Illya—“

Illya’s mouth is open. He’s making noise but he doesn’t know what, maybe he’s babbling or maybe he’s wailing out his pleasure, but it’s like he can’t control his body. He comes so hard he greys out a little.

When he blinks his eyes open again Napoleon is lying on his side next to him, a hand on his chest rubbing idly at the cooling come on Illya’s skin.

“Awake?” He smiles when Illya turns his head to look, brings his soiled fingers up to his mouth and licks them clean. Illya feels some overworked muscle in his groin clench viciously.

“You,” he says, and sniffs. He is probably red-eyed and dripping mucous from his nose. “You are a dangerous man.”

Napoleon’s grin lights up his face. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says. Kisses him, slow and sweet and easy.

“Is not,” Illya says.

“Sure thing, Peril.”

**Author's Note:**

>  ~~Is my desperation kink showing?~~ As always, if you want to talk I'm plingokat @ twitter


End file.
